One Inch Ahead
by Shunyata Ryuen
Summary: Taking refuge in a Chinese monastery, a troubled Ri Houjun finds himself with a chance to help a soul as lost as his own. (complete)
1. 1

**Disclaimer:  **Fushigi Yuugi does not belong to me.  If it did, I would be living in a happy little hobbit house in England right now, and the words "part time job" would never leave my lips.  

**Notes:  **No notes up here this time, folks.  They're at the bottom.  ^_~.

**One Inch Ahead**

by Ryuen

-1-

He staggered backwards, bloodied hands falling to his sides.  His shoulder blades struck into the wall a moment later, but his feet kept moving, desperate for escape.  His hands, stained and splotched with crimson, clawed at the unyielding brick until his own blood mingled with that already there, but he barely felt the pain.  His mind was filled with a blinding, screaming light, his ears thick with static.  He was afraid he might pass out.  Or be sick.  There was so much blood...

Gradually, he became aware of a low, moaning wail, rising in the air around him.  Harsh and ragged, it rose in volume and intensity as the seconds ticked by, until finally he could do nothing but clap his hands over his ears and sink to the floor, pleading for it to stop.  It was the moan of a murderer, the moan of a man whose entire world lay broken and bloodied on the floor of his living room.  It was the moan of a man who had killed his best friend, and killed his love, and who now had nothing in the world but blood and tears and a tenderly-wrapped box, waiting on the coffee table with a splatter of scarlet on the paper.  

He wasn't sure when, but eventually, the moaning stopped—but it was almost worse once it had.  The silence pummeled into him in waves, and through the breaks in his fingers, he could still see the curve of her shoulder, the silken brown strands of her hair.  She had always filled the silence, wrapping him in the melody of her laughter and the warmth of her love, but now...  Now, the silence swirled around him, clawing at him with charred, blackened hands, mocking him with imagined echoes of her voice, his voice, their voices together, blending in laughter.  It hadn't been that long ago, had it, that they'd sat around that table, her slicing up birthday cake with that very knife?  It hadn't been that long ago that they'd lain together on that couch, warm in each other's arms, talking softly until sleep came.  

It hadn't been that long ago that he'd slipped that ring onto her finger, begging her only to consider it, and she'd given him that sad smile and handed it back and everything had shattered into dust.

It hadn't been that long ago, it really hadn't.  And yet now, somehow, everything was different.  Everything had changed.  It still didn't feel real; he was half-certain that any moment, he would feel her hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of this terrible nightmare.  That was how it went, after all, wasn't it?  On T.V.?  The man only _dreamed_ that he lost everything, that he ended the lives of his best friend and his love.  Then he woke up, the dream sequence ended, and everything was fine again and he could finally really appreciate the beautiful, perfect life that he had.  It wasn't real.  It was _never_ real.  How could it be real?  That wouldn't be fair.  That wouldn't be right.  For the man never to have a chance to tell his friend that he loved him after all, to never have a chance to tell his love that it was all right, that he could be happy with what they had—that they didn't _need_ to get married to be together...  That wasn't how things went.  There was always a second chance.

Shivering, he sank down to the floor and rested his cheek on the cool tile.  His arms curled into his chest, and his knees pressed upwards until they rested near his chin.

He would just lie here.  He would lie here and wait, and soon...soon he would wake up.  Soon the world would stop rocking and the tears would stop coming and things would go back to normal—soon everything would be all right again.  He just had to wait long enough.  He just had to...

~*~

_6 Months Later_

His legs had long since stopped cramping up as he sat there, hands folded before his chest, back unnaturally straight.  It was the posture itself, Master Jiu had told him, that allowed one to be completely relaxed and at one with the air around him, but also to remain completely alert.  Meditation was a personal experience, carried out in a place removed from the distractions of others, but Master Jiu was known to peek into the chambers from time to time, observing the progress of his students.  Those members of the monastery Jiu found relaxed in sleep rather than meditation were rarely disciplined lightly, and were occasionally forced to forgo sleep the next night as a punishment.  During such a punishment, Master Jiu would call the guilty party to his chambers for the long night, and would sit there on the floor, legs folded into the lotus, eyes lightly-closed.  The student would be expected stand beside his master, still and silent, and meditate on the cause of his lack of self-discipline until dawn.  Although he himself had never experienced that particular punishment, he'd heard that the master kept a willow branch in reach in case the student were to lapse into sleep, or to waver even an inch from his pose.  

He himself had only been punished once during his stay here, and that had been on the very day he'd arrived.  Master Jiu had asked him, as he stood there before him in jeans and a button-down dress shirt, a suitcase of belongings clutched in his hand, what he hoped to accomplish by entering the monastery.

"I hope to lose myself," he had answered.

Master Jiu, a small, bald Chinese man with a hawk-like nose, had stared at him levelly and said, "This place is not about losing.  It is about finding.  Go change into proper clothes and then go to the gardens.  Tell whoever you find there that you will do his job until you can give him the one gift that he yearns to receive from you."

He had done so, confused but certain that he could find peace nowhere but here, and had spent the next three weeks slaving in the gardens, his fingers kneading the earth, trimming leaves, shearing bushes, digging up weeds, and watering thirsty stalks.  It had been hard, back-breaking work, but he had done it, and as time had passed and he had begun to see the effects of his work on the gardens, he had grown to love the feel of the dirt in his fingers, the scent of rich, churned earth in his nostrils.  It hadn't been until he'd glanced up from his work one day, sweat shining on his bare chest, fingers bathed in sap, dirt, and a few pricks of blood, that he had seen the face of the old gardener and realized what he could give him.

He'd risen from the ground, feeling the heat of the sun on his smooth, shaved head, and had started to walk towards the man.  His name was Henry; he was from New York, and despite his age—forty-five or so—he had the sweet, plump face of a boy.  He had often noticed Henry lingering at the edge of the gardens as he worked, watching him with large, intent eyes, but until now had not understood that it was longing, not watchfulness, that rested in his gaze.

Certain, now, that he knew the answer to Master Jiu's once-confusing instructions, he had stopped in front of Henry, who was suddenly looking guilty and contrite, gaze flickering as if in search of escape, and had handed the man the trowel he'd been using to dig up weeds.

"Here," he'd said, and then had left the gardens and returned to his room.  

Master Jiu had visited him that night, pausing in his doorway with hands folded before him, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight.  "What have you lost?" he'd asked quietly.

Not shifting from his position of meditation or even opening his eyes, he had replied, "I've lost something that was important to me.  Something that I cared about.  But I lost it to someone who wanted it more."

"No," Master Jiu had said.  "You lost nothing.  You gave.  You can never lose what you give freely."  And then, in a tone gentler and kinder than he'd ever heard the master use before:  "Don't lose yourself, Houjun.  Give yourself to something that wants you more."

He hadn't been entirely sure what the master meant by that, at first.  Initially, he'd thought that perhaps he had meant the pursuit of peace, or preserving the quiet life that existed in the monastery.  Now, however, with the memory of that girl's face so agonizingly-sharp in his mind, he was convinced that it was for something else that he was destined.  A great deal of time had passed since he'd woken on the floor of his apartment, trapped in a nightmare that wouldn't fade, and that time had changed him.  The quiet, meditative life of the monastery had drawn some of the grief from his heart, and had smoothed and refined the guilt until it was little more than a slight pang in his chest.  And even though it was easy to forget himself here, to forget who he had been and what he had done, to vanish into the peace of the meditation and live as a new man, he strained to hold onto the memory of his former life.  Kouran was dead.  Hikou was dead.  But for whatever reason, he was alive, and losing himself in the hopes of avenging them would do no good.

He had to give himself, and now, finally, he knew where he was needed.

He concluded his meditation at the rumble of hunger in his stomach.  The members of the monastery functioned without the benefit of a calendar or clock, and measured time only in the rising and setting of the sun and the various phases of the moon.  In that way, they drew themselves closer to nature, and felt the flow of the world, the interconnectedness of all things, more deeply.  Because of this belief in the unimportance of time, students were encouraged to eat when hungry, not at an appointed hour to be upheld by all.  When hungry, eat.  That was the first instruction Master Jiu gave all new students, and despite its seeming simplicity, Houjun had found it one of the master's most important and meaningful lessons.__

_Eat when hungry.  Listen to what your body tells you.  Only you can know when you need nourishment, whether it be of the body or of the spirit.  And only you can know when you are filled, and it is time to move on to other things._

He would miss being here, he truly would.  Life was gentle and unhurried, and despite how much time he spent alone in his chamber, feeling the hard wood below him and the cool air around him, he had never felt lonely, and had never once desired anything more or less than this life.  And yet, he knew—as deeply as he had ever known anything—that this life had filled him, had provided all the nourishment that it could, and now it was time to move on.  

Rising from the floor, bare feet sticky against the wood, Houjun knew of the master's presence in the doorway before he turned.  

"You are hungry again," Jiu said; it was not a question.

Houjun nodded, for once letting his eyes meet the eyes of his teacher without hesitation.  "Yes, Master."  
  


"Go, then," the small man continued.  "Be filled.  This room will be here if that hunger fades."  A slight smile tugged at his lips.  "If you still need it."

Houjun bowed, palms pressed together at chest level.  "Thank you, Master."

He ate slowly that day, savoring each bite, enjoying the touch of the food on his tongue.  And then, when he was finished, he rose from the squat table, washed his plate and chopsticks, and left the monastery through the front door.  He wanted to take one last stroll through the gardens, to perhaps ask Henry if he could spend just a few minutes watering or trimming or weeding, but instead, he started off down the dirt road to the world beyond the monastery.  The road spread out below him, long and sprinkled with debris from the previous night's storm, a river of hazards to his bare, calloused feet.  The sunlight was warm on his back.

~*~

The hut was small.  He had bought it from a kind-faced widow intending to move in with her sister, paying even less than the tiny structure was worth because the widow claimed she was glad to be rid of it.  He had seen the recognition in her eyes when she looked at him, however, when she noticed his shaved head, bare feet, and reddish-brown robes, and knew that she had lowered the price because he didn't have enough to pay it.  He'd never mentioned that, however, and had happily accepted the widow's generosity.  Now, the hut was his, smaller than his old apartment and just about the size of his room at the monastery.  The walls were sturdy and kept out the weather, there was room for a sleeping mat, table, and the belongings he still carried from his old life, and a small garden waited in the back.  The hut itself was set atop a hill, within walking distance of the nearest village, and was cloaked on three sides by thick, lush Chinese woodland.

It was everything he could've wanted, and a quarter mile's walk would put him in the village of Tongli, where he had seen the girl several weeks earlier.  She had been at the market, pretty in a satiny blue blouse and black slacks, her long black hair plaited into a braid and flipped over one shoulder.  There had been something about her, something about her eyes...  It was as if, peering into them, he could see straight into the secret heart of this young woman, and that secret heart had spoken of unimaginable pain, of lying awake at nights sobbing, of sprinting down that too-short road to self-destruction.  

Yet examining her, studying the casual grace to her limbs, the easy smiles that touched her lips, he hadn't been able to believe that she could hold such pain within her.  After all, if such a thing were made so obvious merely by looking into her eyes, why had no one else been able to see it?  She had interacted with shopkeepers, friendly old women, young children with admiration shining in their eyes, and they had seen nothing but a cheerful young woman, smiling as she went about her shopping.  Was that because he was imagining things, inventing pain where there was none?

No.

No, he had seen it.  He was sure, now more than ever.  Now, as he stood on the edge of the marketplace again, pretending to examine a delicate silver necklace as he watched her, he was sure.  She wore a stylish, ankle-length skirt today, the fabric dyed black and embroidered with red flowers; her hair hung loose, flooding down over her shoulders, contrasting starkly with the whiteness of her blouse.  Her face was pale and unmistakably Asian, her eyes dark and almond-shaped, her cheekbones high and well-defined.  A small mole rested below her left eye, easily distinguishable against the paleness of her cheek.

She moved like a willow through the chaos of the marketplace, bending in the wind of the shifting crowd, letting herself be moved by it, but always standing strong, never breaking her stride.  Before Houjun was entirely aware of what he was doing, he found himself starting towards her, barely having the sense to return the necklace to its table before doing so.  He knew he should wait.  He knew he should observe her a bit more, find out just what it was that made him sure that he could help her—learn something about her and find a subtler, less-forward way to approach her.  But, his feet were moving and he couldn't stop them, and only a few moments later, he found himself standing only inches away from her.

She had stopped at the booth of an old man selling flowers, and was pointing at a bundle of long-stemmed purple flowers arrayed in a crystal vase.  He came up behind her, just another shopper strolling through the marketplace, but her back stiffened as if she knew somehow that he was there for her.  His first instinct, seeing that new rigidity to her shoulders, was to turn and leave as quickly as possible, abandon this foolishness and wait until a better opportunity presented itself.  But something inside of him wouldn't let him leave, and if his time with Master Jiu had taught him anything, it was to pay attention to the voice within.  That voice spoke to him now, telling him to stay where he was, and so he did.  

So it was that he was standing directly behind her, hair a brownish fuzz on his head, hands and robes stained with earth from his garden, feet bare but for simple leather sandals, when she finally turned around.  She had bought the flowers, depositing the correct amount of money on the shopkeeper's table, and so they were now clasped tight in her fingers, held almost protectively to her chest.  

He noticed, now, that she was a few inches shorter than he was, the top of her head reaching only to the bottom of his nose; her arms and body were very slender, too, looking as if they might snap if put under the least amount of pressure.  Physically, she wasn't terribly formidable—yet, something told him not to underestimate this woman.  Something told him that there was more to her than there seemed, and as he looked into her eyes and saw, again, that depth of pain and anguish, he knew that he had made the right decision in coming here.

"Hello," he said.  

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, but then widened as if she'd seen something unexpected.  "Hello," she echoed. 

Her voice was husky but pleasant, and low enough to be genderless; her features, now that he looked at them, held that androgynous quality to them, also, attractive but not overtly feminine or masculine.  Before he had even considered the consequences of doing so, he found his eyes drifting to her chest, to the billowy, concealing fabric of her blouse...

And it was then that he knew.

Like the pain in those dark, almond-shaped eyes, he doubted that it was obvious to anyone else, yet to him, it was glaringly clear.  He thought that he had known all along, somehow, that perhaps upon that first glimpse, he had seen this beautiful, delicate-featured young man for what he was, even if he hadn't been able to admit it to himself.  But now, knowing, and perhaps beginning to understand why it was that he could help this poor soul in pain, he found that he couldn't deny what he knew.  

But as he opened his mouth to give some sign as to his knowledge, he found that he didn't need to.  The young man's eyes were wide with shock, cheeks flushed, bouquet pressed even more tightly to his chest.  "You know," he whispered.  "How do you know?"

Pressing his hands together at chest level, Houjun bowed slightly.  "I'm here to help you," he said softly.  "Is there somewhere we could go to—"  
  


"I'm on my way to the cemetery," the young man interjected; his voice wavered slightly.  "Would...would you like to come with me?"

The decision to go seemed hardly a decision at all.  He had decided days ago, as he strode down the path from the monastery for the last time, and now, standing here in the Tongli marketplace with this young man, the word slipped from his lips before he'd even given it thought.

"Yes."  He drew a deep breath; the scent of flowers was thick in the air, making him think inevitably of a funeral.  He swallowed.  "Yes, I'll come."

~*~

**_N O T E S:_**

Well, this is certainly...different, ne? ^_~.  Different for me, at least.  Anyway, this is a story I've been thinking about writing for awhile now, but which I've only recently gotten around to working on.  Oddly, the structure of it seems to mirror Roku-chan's "Bridge Over the Abyss" a bit—e.g., Houjun mourns the deaths of Kouran and Hikou, Houjun goes to some sort of monastery-like place, Houjun meets a new friend—but I promise you, any resemblance to that wonderful work of fanfiction was completely unintentional.  Most of this was written before I even read Bridge.  *nod*

Annnnnyway.  By now, you have probably figured out that the main character is, indeed, Chichiri, better known as Ri Houjun.  It's a reincarnation fic in the fact that it takes place in the real world, not the Book World, and in that the Fushigi Yuugi characters exist in it in a state similar to their states in the Book.  However, I've opted to make it as little like anime as possible; Nuriko, you'll notice, has black hair and Asian features, and Houjun's hair is brown—and, sorry to say, does not defy gravity. :P  

On another note, the monastery that Houjun finds himself in (and there will be more explanation later as to just how he gets there, as well as precisely what went on with Kouran and Hikou) is a place dedicated to Zen Buddhist beliefs, in case you found them appealing and want to learn more. :P  The Chinese village of Tongli, too, is a real place—it's what's called a "water town," as it has a great deal of water and a ton of bridges.  Quite the tourist attraction, as I understand.  ...unfortunately, though, I'm not an expert on China.  I've never been there, and I know fairly little about the country in general.  Thus, most of the detail I include about it will be made up of creative educated guesses.  So, hey, if you're writing a paper or something about China, don't use my story for a reference point. ^_~.  

As for the title, it comes from a Japanese saying, "One inch ahead and all is total darkness," a statement on the uncertainty of the future and the importance of appreciating _now_, because it can all be gone far too quickly.

Anyway, I suppose that's all I have to say at this point.  I've enjoyed writing this story thus far, and so I hope to be able to add more to it in the future and thus enjoy it further.  And as for my other fics...well, I can only work on what I'm inspired to work on.  If I try to force it, it doesn't work all that well, and personally, I'd rather turn out one really excellent chapter every few weeks than a bunch of crappy chapters every few days.  So.  I guess all that's left to say now is thanks, to all who read and review, and to all who read and don't review, and even to those who open the fic and skim down to the bottom to see what the hell it's about, anyway. ^_~.  Thanks to all, and if you're so inclined, I'd love to hear your thoughts/opinions/whatever.  Jaaaa!!  
~Ryuen 


	2. 2

-2-

The ground was soft beneath his feet; his sandals sank an inch into it with each step, cool flakes of dirt tickling his toes.  His young companion—who had introduced himself a short time ago as Kourin—followed the grass-littered path with steps so light that there was barely a mark of his passing; despite the numerous other concerns and questions buzzing in his mind, Houjun couldn't help studying Kourin's whispery, half-formed footprints with interest.  He had never seen anyone—male _or female—move with such grace,  as if each step were part of some intricate solo ballet; for a moment, he let himself pretend that the birds themselves sang accompaniment to this dance, the wind played percussion upon the trees, and the sun traced Kourin's movements like a heavenly spotlight.  This line of thought—and its inevitable Disney associations—drew his lips slightly upwards, and so it was that he was smiling when his graceful guide pivoted around to look at him._

"It isn't much farther," Kourin told him cheerfully—though Houjun caught the glimmer of anxiety in his eyes before it was swallowed into a grin.  "I hope this isn't too much exercise for you.  From what I hear, monastery life is mostly just sitting around."

He smiled, enjoying the teasing note in his new companion's voice.  "True," he said, "but there _is slightly more to it than that.  Besides," he added with a hint of mischief, "you'd be surprised by how many calories we burn with all that incessant chanting…"_

Kourin matched his grin, and this time there was no unease lurking in the expression.  "I didn't know monks were allowed to have a sense of humor."

"I'm not technically a monk, anymore."

"Ah, well, that explains it, then."  

They traveled on in silence for a moment, a leafy tide rushing above their heads, the sun just tipping into afternoon, and then Kourin asked briefly, over one shoulder, "So, why aren't you?"

His eyes slid from the path and to the back of his companion's head, where silky black ribbons of hair trembled in the breeze.  "Why aren't I a monk anymore?"

The dark head ducked into a nod.  

So many answers…and yet, really, only one; it slipped from his mind to his lips before he could stop it.  "Because of you."  

Kourin stiffened, the dancer's grace faltering for just a moment—and then he stretched an arm forward and pointed.  "Look; we're here," he announced, and Houjun saw that just a few feet ahead of them, the path opened up into a grassy clearing peopled with three stone markers.  The birdsong seemed more sorrowful here, as if even forest creatures knew that a young man's shattered family lay under the earth; Kourin's slim shoulders went rigid as he set foot in the cemetery, and his feet suddenly seemed in danger of being sucked into the ground.  

_Listen to what your body tells you…_

Instinct drew Houjun to Kourin's side; compassion and a familiar ache in his chest brought his arm around those rigid shoulders, tugging the young man close.  It was only as he felt the press of a warm body against him that he realized—_this is the first time I've held anyone since…Kouran._

Panic shuddered through him, battering all the quiet Zen defenses he'd erected over the last six months.  He'd barely touched anyone at all since the events of that night—a handshake or the accidental brushing of shoulders had been the extent of his human contact—and now, suddenly, his senses were awash with the closeness of this other person: the muted heat of his skin, the satiny texture of his blouse, the dull, vibrating thud of his heartbeat.  None of them unpleasant sensations, and yet his brain couldn't seem to help bellowing that this was _not Kouran!_  No matter how soft the skin or how familiar the curve of the shoulder, this was _not_ _Kouran_, and…

And it never would be.

_Control_, he commanded himself, thankful that Kourin's head was bowed to the graves at their feet and not inspecting his fear- and pain-twisted features.  _You _must_ calm down.  You're not here to battle your own demons, you're here to help someone else battle his.  _

With tremendous effort, he pushed away the torrent of emotions and, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils to center himself, forced himself to speak.  Before he could open his mouth, however, Kourin slipped gently from his grasp and strode forward to stand before the smallest—and newest—of the graves; after a moment of silence, during which the young man murmured a few sentences in a voice too soft for him to hear, he bent to deposit the purple flowers on the grave, then straightened and drew a deep breath.  It was only as Kourin turned that Houjun caught a glimpse of the name of the grave—and like a missing puzzle piece had been slipped into place, there was suddenly a recognizable picture where before there had been none.

CHOU  KOURIN

July 5, 1988 – Mar. 10, 2000

Beloved sister

Kourin gave a thin, slightly bitter smile.  "I suppose this explains a lot, ne?"  Shaking his head, the youth drew a sad gaze back to the grave; his voice was barely a whisper.  "We were so close.  Even when we…lost Tousan and Kaasan, I knew it would be all right, because Kourin was with me.  I thought…I thought we would be together forever."  Wiping a quick hand under his eyes, he gave a short laugh.  "I-I don't know why I'm telling you this, or even how I _can.  I've kept it a secret for so long…"_

A shiver ran the length of Houjun's spine; his mouth was dry when next he spoke.  "The only way to conquer pain," he said, tasting every word like bitter medicine, "is to experience it.  To not run away from it.  To…to _feel it and become it."  _

Master Jiu had said this a thousand times, and at each repetition, Houjun had nodded, thinking, _Yes.  That makes perfect sense._  And the next time he'd stubbed his toe or felt his folded legs stiffening beneath him, he'd forced himself to feel the pain completely—to let it wash over him, to really _live in it—and just as Master Jiu had promised, the pain had abated within seconds.  But to use it like this?  To exhume the anguish of his past when new sprouts of grass were just beginning to grow on its grave?_

"I'm afraid to feel it."

For a moment, he was unsure whether the childlike whisper came from himself or Kourin; even before he realized it was not himself who had spoken, though, he decided that it didn't matter—whoever had voiced it, they both felt it.  

"I know," he murmured.  He meant to say more, but before he could squeeze the words out, Kourin's eyes went suddenly wide, and his left arm lifted to offer a clearer view of a delicate silver wristwatch.

"Ah!  I'm late!  I'm sorry, but I have to go.  But, ah, maybe we could talk later?  You live in that hut on the hill, don't you?  I'll stop by sometime, okay?  For now, though, I really have to—"

Houjun nodded, though a part of him ached with disappointment.  "I understand," he assured the youth, and then Kourin was waving and turning and—with only an instant's hesitation—racing back down the path towards the village.

He stood there in the cemetery for a long time, feeling numb and strangely empty, his gaze fixed on the tiny grave's inscription as if he might glean some wisdom from its lettering.  Then he returned to the path and traced its length himself, all the while breathing in air that smelled suddenly of blood.

~*~

Master Jiu was in the garden when he arrived at the monastery, the older man's robes dusty and mud-splotched, his fingers buried in the earth.  When he glanced up, a glimmer of sweat on his brow, Houjun found himself oddly surprised to realize that the Master did, indeed, sweat on a hot summer's day; a part of him had always known, of course, that Jiu was merely a man like himself, but somehow he'd thought the Master above such mundane activities as sweating.

Jiu raised an eyebrow at him, and he realized he'd been standing motionless for several moment, staring and not speaking.  Belatedly, he bowed.  "Master, I'd like to speak with you."

With a hint of a smile, Jiu returned to his gardening.  "Then speak."

"I…"  He cast a nervous glance at the dozen or so monks hard at work in the garden, then pushed past his anxiety and put breath to the words.  "I want to tell you…what happened to me before I came here."

Jiu said nothing to this, his weathered hands plucking weeds gently from the soil, so Houjun plunged onward.

"I realized today that I never…that I've been hiding from what happened, not allowing myself to grieve or feel the pain of it, and so I wanted to—"

"No."

He stopped short, the breath faltering in his lungs.  "…what, Master?"

Jiu got his legs beneath him, brushed some dirt from his robes, and then rose to face him.  "No," he said again, just as firmly.  "You may not tell me."

"But…but I need to—"  
  


"This," said Jiu in a stern whisper, "is not grieving.  This is not feeling your pain or living in it, it is trying to squeeze it into words.  It is trying to hand it to me so I might do the work of it for you.  It is just another form of hiding."  
  


Frustration bubbled in his chest; he was startled to find tears prickling his eyelids.  "But I don't know what else to _do—how else to get over my pain."  
  
_

Jiu lifted a finger.  "_That is your first mistake.  If your goal is only to be beyond the pain, you will never be in the moment of your grief, and so you will never feel it fully enough to move beyond it.  But if you strive, only, to live in it—to _become_ it, so no more conflict exists between yourself and the pain…"  He gave a small, gentle smile and grasped the younger man's shoulders.  "That is the only way you can put it behind you.  How can you look back upon a road until you've walked to the end of it?"  
  
_

Houjun closed his eyes, the scent of tilled soil reminding him of long, happy days with his fingers creased with mud, the sun beating down on him, his entire being wrapped into the essence of the work.  He remembered such contentment in those days, such simple, perfect pride…

And he remembered, very dimly, guilt.

It had been only a moment's torment, as he lay down to sleep one night; he'd nearly forgotten it by morning, and in fact had not thought of it at all until now.  And yet…  He'd felt guilty—a vicious, hateful, violent torrent of guilt—because he was alive and happy, and Kouran and Hikou—who deserved so dearly to be those two things—were not.

_No matter what happens in my life—no matter what happiness or contentment I feel—there'll always be a shadow over it, won't there?  I'll never be able to be _truly_ happy, because…_

His teeth clenched, and the truth trembled through him like a shiver.

_Because I feel like I don't deserve it._

"Houjun."

He opened his eyes.  Master Jiu still stood exactly where he had a moment earlier, yet something about his manner seemed different—softer.  

"Yes, Master?"  
  


"Did you find what you were looking for in the city?"  
  


Kourin's sad, dark eyes fluttered into his mind, and guilt came to him then for a different reason.

"I…I did," he managed.  "There is a…young man.  He recently lost his family, and he…he's having difficulty…"

"Facing his pain?"

Houjun lowered his eyes.  "Yes."  
  


"And through him, you were able to see your own…difficulties?"  
  


"Yes, Master.  I…I should have stayed in the city and…spoken to him more, but instead I…all I could think of was coming here to—"  
  


"Now you think differently," Jiu said simply.  "And do not forget—two drowning men are of very little use to one another.  Until you remove your own burdens, how are you to help him with his?"       

~*~

Kourin visited him early the next day.  He was startled to find the young man waiting at his door—he'd half expected the youth to avoid him after their exchange in the cemetery—but even more startling was the change that had come over him.  His long black hair had been unevenly shorn so it hung a few inches above his shoulders, framing a face noticeably devoid of make-up.  In place of his usual flowing skirts was a neatly-tailored pair of khaki pants, matched with a loose, collared white button-down and beige undershirt.  The aura of femininity about him was still palpable, and yet there was also an unmistakable _maleness_ to him, as well—and though the dark eyes flicked from side to side as if terrified someone might see him, a hint of a smile drew at his lips, and the shoulders were more deeply relaxed than Houjun had ever seen them.

As he drew breath to welcome the young man to his home, Kourin extended a hand.  After only a moment's hesitation, the former monk accepted it into his own, his larger fingers fitting neatly over Kourin's smaller ones.

"I'm Ryuuen," his guest said firmly, his eyes glittering like smooth dark stones in the light.  "Chou Ryuuen."

The hand he held trembled slightly at the pronouncement, and with a sudden, genuine smile, Houjun clasped his other hand over their joined fingers.  "Please," he said gently.  "Come in."

They sat down to tea at his low table, sipping the subtle, earthy blend in silence while morning rose beyond the walls of the hut.  

"I have some questions to ask you," Ryuuen said at last.  

Houjun bowed his head in acquiescence…and then stopped, the last words Master Jiu had said to him yesterday flaring into his mind.

_If you remember nothing else of our conversation today, remember this:  peace will never come to you until you stop looking for it.  You must live every moment, feeling your emotions and savoring what your senses tell you—only then will your peace be real.  False peace is what we hide behind when we would rather not feel—we tell ourselves that we are following Buddha, that we are becoming one with the flow of the world around us, but in truth, we are hiding.  We are using the illusion of peace to prevent ourselves from suffering…but suffering can only be conquered by experiencing it.  Don't hide from it, Houjun.  _

_Don't hide from it._

Houjun raised his head.  

"This…"  His voice was very soft, barely above a murmur.  "This isn't me."

Ryuuen frowned, his head tilting a bit to the side in confusion.  "Isn't…  What do you mean?"  
  


The older man shook his head.  "I've been wearing a costume," he continued quietly.  "A mask.  You've taken yours off, and it's only…it's only right if I take off mine as well."

Ryuuen arched an eyebrow.  "You're not about to rip off that robe, are you?  Because I know I was wearing a dress the first time you met me, but…"

Houjun couldn't help a smile at that.  "No," he said, still smiling, "I was…speaking metaphorically."

"Look," said Ryuuen seriously, "I don't claim to understand _anything about this.  I don't know how you…how you _knew_ when we met that day in the marketplace, or why you would say you stopped being a monk because of _me_, or…well, __anything, really.  But I _do_ know that…that there's something the _same_ about us.  The moment our eyes met, I…I felt like I _knew_ you, and even though we didn't exactly talk about it, I know that…well, that you've lost someone, too."  He shook his head.  "Before, when we were talking…I wasn't being me, I was being…I was playing a part.  And I think you were, too.  I was the delicate young maiden who's lost her family but is surprisingly buoyant, and you were the wise former monk, imparting wisdom and trying to comfort the delicate young maiden.  But it wasn't __real, was it?"_

Houjun closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wisps of hot air rising from his tea cup, hearing the creak of wind against the walls of the house and the soft rhythm of Ryuuen's breath.  "No," he murmured.  "It wasn't real."

Warm fingers enfolded his hand; he opened his eyes to find Ryuuen smiling at him, a slightly crooked smile that seemed somehow boyish.  "Then let's be real, okay?  None of this makes any sense, but it seems like we met for a reason.  Maybe it was so we could help each other."

Houjun smiled.  "Maybe it was."  A tremor of guilt tingled at the edge of his mind, and with Ryuuen's comforting touch lending him strength, he attempted to put it into words.  "But I feel like…I don't _deserve_ to be helped."

Ryuuen's gaze fell to the tabletop, lingering there for a moment before he spoke.  "Believe me," he said quietly, "I understand.  Kourin died…because of me.  If I hadn't…"  He trailed off, shaking his head.  "When she died, I wished _so dearly that it had been me, because she didn't _deserve _to die when she'd done nothing wrong.  And so I…I thought that if I…that if I gave up _my_ life so some small part of her might keep on living, that…that maybe that would make up for it somehow."_

Houjun found himself studying the table as well.  "I killed my best friend," he whispered.  "And…and the only woman I ever…"  Tears caught the words in his throat, and before he knew it, he was pressing his face into his hands and sobbing.

He hadn't cried since that day, since he'd sat huddled on the floor with blood on his hands and clothes, waiting for the ambulance that was already too late.  During the long, silent drive to the hospital and the following hours in the waiting room, staring at the minute hand and waiting for the coroner's verdict, he'd felt invisible and numb.  Nothing had seemed real, and so there had been nothing to grieve over—nothing to feel but a dreamy hope that he might wake soon, because today he was to propose to Kouran, and Hikou would be his best man and they would dance and eat cake and be happy.  Today, his life would become perfect and complete…

It was Kouran's birthday.  Twenty.  It didn't seem so long ago that he'd watched her puffing out her cheeks to blow out seven candles, then eight, then nine, then later sixteen, seventeen…  He'd been there for every one of her birthdays since the seventh, and every year his love for her had deepened and matured until finally, on her eighteenth, she had admitted she felt the same way.  He remembered her shy fingers clasping around his own, leading him out onto the back porch and into the orchard.  Moonlight shimmered in her hair, bathing her pale skin in silver, and for a moment, he was afraid to touch her because she was too beautiful to be real.  Then she smiled, and he knew that this was still Kouran—still the girl he'd grown up with and laughed and joked with—and suddenly his lips fell into hers as if a physical force had pulled them together, and the very air around them went still.

Two years later, he still felt as if the world froze when he kissed her, and he knew with utter certainty that there was no other woman in the world—or _any world—that he would rather spend the rest of his life with.  _

He planned the event with expert care, cooking her favorite foods and decorating the table with her favorite flowers; the ring, he kept tucked safely in his pocket, ready to present her with it as they began their dessert.  A friend of his had made the cake—he wouldn't risk baking it himself—and it was three layers of rich, moist devil's food cake with dark chocolate frosting.  Spelled out across the top layer in delicate chips of white chocolate was, "Will you marry me, Kouran?"

It was perfect.  Soft violin music in the background, candlelight bathing the room in a cozy glow, a sweet dessert wine chilling for the celebratory drink after she said "yes…"  It would be the perfect evening to preface the perfect life together, and though he knew it was unwise to get his hopes up, he felt certain that nothing short of nuclear war could spoil it.

The doorbell rang.  Trembling but smiling, he smoothed his powder blue dress shirt and rose to answer it, afraid he would give away the surprise immediately…but upon opening the door, he found Hikou standing out in the corridor, his hands twisting together as if in great nervousness.  

Houjun frowned.  "Hikou?  What are you—"

"I need to talk to you."  His voice was breathy, as if he'd just run up several flights of steps.  "Now."

The older man glanced over his shoulder at all his careful preparations, then turned back to his friend and sighed.  "Come in.  But Kouran will be here any—"  
  


"I know," Hikou said, and Houjun couldn't help noting the apprehension in his voice.  His frown deepening, he ushered his friend to the couch and bade him sit; he was just about to offer the other man a drink when Hikou leaped to his feet and jabbed a finger at him.

"It wasn't right," he announced.  His face was flushed with anger.  "You knew I liked her.  You _had to know it.  _Everybody_ knew it.  I-I think even __she knew it.  But you went ahead anyway, Houjun, and…and every day since then, you've been rubbing my face in it."_

Bewildered, Houjun climbed to his feet.  "What are you talking about?  Rubbing your face in _what?"_

"You and Kouran!" he exploded.  "I met her _first_, you know.  I _loved_ her first, but you…you didn't care about that, did you?  You just…you just wanted _you to be happy, and now you're gonna propose to her and she's gonna say yes without ever knowing that I've loved her since we were __five years old!"_

Houjun felt cold.  It was all he could do not to topple back onto the couch.  "But," he managed in a small voice.  "But you said you'd be my best man."

The words sounded so silly once they left his mouth.  Hikou had just confessed to having been in love with Kouran for almost his entire life, and that was all he could think to say?  "I'm sorry," he said immediately.  "I didn't mean it like—"

But Hikou didn't let him finish.  "No," he growled.  "No, it's fine.  I tell you something like this, and of course your only thoughts are about how it affects _you."_

"Hikou, I didn't _mean_ it like that; I didn't think—"

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, God," Houjun heard himself whisper.  "Kouran."  He turned fearful eyes to Hikou, wishing there were some magic word he could speak to fix this.  "Hikou, please.  Let's not let her see us fighting.  It would…it would just upset her…"

"And it might spoil the mood?" Hikou said sourly.  "No.  No, I'm done pretending.  I can't do it anymore.  I _won't."  He drew himself up to his full height, and in his eyes was a dark determination that sent a chill down his best friend's spine.  "I'm going to tell her, Houjun.  When she comes in, before you propose…I'm going to tell her that I love her, and then she can decide which of us she would rather be with."_

Feeling as if the world itself were crumbling around him, Houjun succumbed to his weakened legs and sat down hard on the couch.  The doorbell rang again before he could find breath to speak, and through the door came Kouran's sweet, melodic voice:  "Hello?  Houjun?"  
  


Before Houjun could move, Hikou turned and strode to the door, and a moment later had tugged it open to reveal the object of their joined affection.  Peering weakly over the back of the couch, Houjun saw a twinge of confusion touch her delicate features, and then she smiled and greeted Hikou with the sweet smile she always reserved for her oldest friend.

Her oldest friend…

_No_, he commanded himself.  _No, don't even think that.  She might have known him longer, but it's _me_ she loves.  It's always been me._

The door closed behind Kouran, and she took in the romantic surroundings—and Hikou's presence—with the slight lift of an eyebrow.  "I hope I'm not…interrupting anything," she said with a smile.

"Actually," Hikou said, and Houjun was startled by how gentle his voice had become, "there's something I need to talk to you about, Kouran."

She frowned slightly, her eyes seeking out Houjun's, but the latter was too numb to do anything but stare back at her.  Her frown deepening, Kouran took a short step towards the couch.  

"Houjun, are you all right?"

"NO!" Hikou burst out, startling both of them.  "No, don't go to him!  Do I mean nothing to _either_ of you?  God, I run halfway across town so I can put my heart on the line, here, and all Houjun can think about is whether I'll still be his best man or not, and all _you_ can think about is _him!"_

Kouran's face paled.  "Best…best man?"  Her eyes turned back to Houjun, and with a cold, sinking feeling, he realized that it was not joy he saw reflected in her eyes.  "Houjun, you weren't…you weren't going to…propose to me, were you?"  
  


He looked away, the soothing strains of violin music from the stereo sounding suddenly ominous.  "I…" he began, but he could find nothing more to say.  Finally, he looked up at her and swallowed hard.  "Don't you…want to get married?"  
  


Kouran closed her eyes, such sadness touching her features that Houjun felt heartsick at the sight of it.  "Yes," she said softly, "I do.  _Someday.  But not _now_.  Houjun, I'm only twenty years old!  I'm not even out of __college yet.  I'm not ready to get married, not to you or anyone.  I'm…I'm sorry."_

As Houjun watched, stunned and sick and dazed, Hikou walked over to Kouran's side and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, his lips twisting into a smug, satisfied smile…and something in Houjun snapped.

"Don't touch her!" he cried, leaping to his feet with anger searing in his chest.  "Don't you _touch her!"_

Kouran glanced between the two men in confusion, her eyes widening at the unexpected outburst.  "Houjun," she said tremulously.  "What're you—"

"He's _in love_ with you!" he shouted.  "Hikou's _in love with you, and he came here to tell you so you'll leave me and be with him!"  
  
_

Hikou's face burned scarlet, and with a cry of rage, he sprinted across the room and tackled Houjun to the floor; before the older man could react, his best friend had drawn back a fist and slammed it into his face.  Houjun's vision wavered at the sudden burst of pain, but he was just angry enough to shove Hikou away from him, hearing the shattering of ceramic plates and the clatter of silverware as his friend's body thudded into the coffee table but not caring.  Kouran had said no.  Kouran had said _no_, and no matter what her excuse had been, no matter how understandable and logical it was, somehow he _knew that it was Hikou's fault.  _

Before he knew what he was doing, he had twisted to sit on Hikou's chest and was punching him again and again and again, so furious that he barely noticed Kouran's hands clutching his shoulders, Kouran's voice pleading for him to _stop…  And then he saw that Hikou's reaching fingers had caught the knife he'd intended to cut the cake with, and before he could blink, it was soaring towards him, candlelight glinting gold on the blade—_

He went deathly still at the sight of it, his muscles going suddenly limp, and with the sudden lack of resistance, Kouran's attempts to push him off of Hikou finally succeeded, her small hands shoving him out of the way…

Somehow he knew what was about to happen even as he fell, but no amount of willpower would fend off gravity's hold on him.  He toppled onto his side on the floor, and by the time he'd twisted back to look at his friends, the knife was buried to the hilt in Kouran's chest, and hot tendrils of scarlet were leaking out onto her blouse. 

"Oh my God," he whispered.  "Oh…oh God.  Oh please.  No.  _No…"_

The next few minutes were a blur—Hikou sobbing, screaming…his own hands lowering Kouran gently to the floor…scrambling to the phone to call 911 although he _knew she wasn't breathing, that she was already _dead_—but through it all, only one thought circled in his brain:___

_It should've been me._

He was hanging up the phone with trembling, blood-stained fingers when Hikou spoke.

"I-I-I'm so sorry," he said, and his words were barely audible through the tears.  "H-Houjun, I…I didn't mean to…I'm so sorry—I'm so _sorry!_  Kouran…"

"Shut up!" Houjun heard himself shriek.  "Just _shut up!_  Everything was _perfect until you…"  _

_It should've been me.  It should've been me, but…_

_But Hikou is the one who killed her._

_Hikou killed her._

_Hikou.  Killed her._

He calmed suddenly and leveled a stare on his sobbing, bruised best friend.  He barely felt human.  "You killed her," he said quietly; Hikou jerked at the words as if he'd been struck.  "You killed Kouran.  You _killed_ her."  His lips bent into a terrible smile.  "But you got what you wanted, didn't you?  Now she'll never marry me."

Hikou wailed at the words, his features twisting in agony, and then he stretched forward as if to touch Kouran's face—but instead grabbed the hilt of the knife, ripped it free, and plunged it into his own chest.

~*~

**NOTES:**

1.  I swear, this story _will be finished!!  There's only one more chapter before the end, and so even with my hectic schedule, I can't imagine myself not managing to write it and get it posted.  *crossed fingers*_

2.  Ryuuen does, indeed, live in China, despite the fact that he uses Japanese expressions from time to time and doesn't have a terribly Chinese-sounding name.  Perhaps his family moved there from Japan?  Who knows.  

3.  Happy holidays. ^_~__


	3. 3

**Author's Note:  **My heartfelt thanks to all who have read and/or reviewed this humble bit of fanfiction.  This is the final chapter; if you'd like some background music for it, I'd suggest "The Long Day Is Over" by Norah Jones, "Forever" by Vertical Horizon, or "Into the West" by Annie Lennox (from the Return of the King soundtrack).  All three were on repeat while I was writing, and each fits the subject matter and mood of various passages.  And I suppose that's all I have to say.  A wonderful new year to you all, and best wishes in all your endeavors, fanfiction or otherwise.   --Ryuen

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

-3-

"Houjun?"  
  


Having sponged the last drops of moisture from his cheeks, Houjun tucked the tissue into his robe pocket and looked up.  Ryuuen—who by this point had returned the packet of Kleenex to his own pocket—was studying him with eyes that shone with brotherly compassion; he waited until the former monk had drawn a few deep breaths before he spoke.

"This might seem like a silly thing to ask, but…how old are you?"

A simple enough question, and yet he found himself floundering for the answer.  "Twenty-two," he managed at last—and hid a look of utter astonishment behind his cup, wincing as the cooled, too-sweet tea filled his mouth.

Twenty-two.  Still young.  Still at the start of his life—barely begun.  God, a little over six months ago, he'd been finishing up his senior year of college, going to the movies with Kouran, playing silly video games with Hikou, and working part time at a book store.  Every other Saturday was spent with his father and grandfather, fishing on the lake near his childhood home and listening to Grandfather's stories—often of his time at a Buddhist monastery in China, though more frequently of the precious year and a half he'd been married to Houjun's grandmother.  

_She was the love of my life_, he would conclude every time, his dark eyes gleaming and fixed on the water.  _When she died, everyone told me what a tragedy it was, that two people so in love should be parted after so short a time together, but I never understood why they would say that.  I was _so lucky _to have had even that much time with her._

"Twenty-two."  It was Ryuuen who spoke the words this time, his voice quiet and thoughtful.  "You seem…a lot older."

"I know," Houjun murmured.  "I feel…"  He strained for the right word for a moment, then let a soft breath puff through his lips as he found it.  "Ancient.  I feel ancient."  
  


"And ready to die?"

The former monk met his companion's gaze in surprise, then sighed and—despite knowing it had gone cold—downed the last of his tea.  "I don't know," he said truthfully.  "A few months ago, yes.  Without question.  But now?  I'm not sure.  Master Jiu taught many lessons on making peace with death, but I don't think that's the same as being so miserable that death seems like the only option."

"No," Ryuen said quietly.  "No, it's not the same.  When Kourin…  When she died, I could see the…regret in her eyes.  Like she was apologizing for leaving me.  But there was…there was peace there, too.  She didn't _want to leave me, but she knew that she had to.  And I think that…well, that no matter how old or young you are, you always leave something—or someone—behind when you die.  Your life is always unfinished, even at the end, and so maybe…maybe finding peace isn't about finishing everything you have to do, but about accepting that you really never __can."_

Somewhere outside a bird called, long and low.  

_When she died, everyone told me what a tragedy it was, that two people so in love should be parted after so short a time together, but I never understood why they would say that.  I was _so lucky_ to have had even that much time with her…_

_But it _was_ a tragedy! his mind couldn't help protesting.  Losing someone so soon—finding true love and then not being able to hold onto it…  _

_But at least he found it.  At least…at least _I_ found it, even if I couldn't hold onto it.  Even if I lost everything__…everyone who mattered…everyone I depended on…_

"I wonder if they found peace," he heard himself whisper.  A warm breeze teased the hairs on his arms, and for a moment, closing his eyes, he could pretend that delicate, familiar fingers danced over his skin.  "Their deaths were so…quick.  So bloody.  And we'd…we'd been arguing…"  The gentle wind caress died, and a fresh onslaught of tears choked him.  "What if they didn't know?  What if they didn't know that I…that I _always…?"_

"They_ knew," Ryuuen said firmly.  A gentle, teasing smile touched his lips, and his voice dropped to a fond  whisper.  "Baka.  Ten minutes of arguing can't undo a __lifetime of friendship."      _

Houjun shook his head.  "But it was my—  If I hadn't been so cold with Hikou, he…he would never have…"

"Houjun," Ryuuen said in a stern voice, and despite the brevity of their acquaintance, the weight of years—lifetimes—of friendship filled his tone.  "Did you want Hikou to die?"  
  


"No!"  The word burst from his lips like a shriek.  "No, of _course not!"  
  
_

Soft, unpainted lips spread into a smile, and a warm hand closed over his own.  "Then it's not your fault, is it?"  
  


"But I—"  
  


"_No.  No matter what you did or said, his death was out of your control.  If you could have, you'd have saved him, but you _couldn't_, and so it wasn't your fault.  Houjun.  It _wasn't.  your.  fault."__

Clarity filled him like a sudden spray of sunlight, and he looked up into Ryuuen's face with eyes still misty with tears.  "And it wasn't your fault, either."

Ryuuen froze at the words, his fingers going tense over Houjun's knuckles; after a moment, he sank back into his chair, one hand drifting tremulously to the wispy ends of his hair.  He drew a dark lock into his fingers, thumb and forefinger sliding over the silky hairs with a lover's delicacy, his features caught in a mix of loss and wonderment.  

"Kourin…used to always say how jealous she was of my hair," he murmured after a time.  "I always wore it long so she could play with it.  She loved brushing it.  Braiding it.  Putting it up in barrettes.  She used to say that she was glad I…that I wasn't a girl, because then all the boys would've fallen in love with me and ignored her."  A flash of a grin, then Ryuuen's face tilted down to the mottled ceramic of his tea cup.  "I-I never told her, but…I used to wish that I _had_ been a girl—not so I could steal away her boyfriends, but so we could be as close as sisters and…and not feel guilty about it.  If we'd been sisters, no one would've minded if we spent all our time together and Tousan wouldn't have…"  His cheeks flushed.  "He wouldn't have been so…disappointed in me."

Sniffling, Ryuuen rescued a tissue from his pocket and dabbed it under his eyes.  "I know, I know," he said with a valiant attempt at a grin.  "Issues stacked upon issues.  It'd take a hundred lifetimes to sort through them all."

Houjun's voice was very soft.  "Maybe that's what we've been given."  At Ryuuen's confused frown, he shook his head and continued.  "Lifetimes, to sort through this.  To grow.  It would make sense.  This all feels so…"

"Familiar?"  
  


"Yes.  Maybe that's because whatever the lesson is, we haven't learned it yet."  
  


"And so, what?  We're doomed to lose the people we love again and again until we figure it out?"  
  


A trickle of knowledge, like cool clear water, filtered into his mind, and a torrent of words spilled from it and onto his lips  "But we lose them again and again no matter _what_.  No matter who we are or who we love, either we lose them or they lose us.  Always.  There's no way around it.  It's not…it's not about how many years we have together or how full of a life we live in that time, because no matter _when we lose them, it will feel sudden.  It will __hurt.  Because—"  He closed his eyes.  "Because there's only now.  There's only __this moment.  One inch ahead, and all is total darkness.  Nothing is for certain, and whatever happens, the only way to get through it is to __live it.  To _be_ in every single moment.  Feel every bit of pain.  Grief.  Happiness."_

…_I was so lucky__ to have had even that much time with her…  _

He laughed suddenly, his eyes wet with tears.  "I was so lucky," he managed through a choking blend of laughter and sobs.  "I was so lucky to have her in my life for all those years.  To have them both.  I was so…_lucky."_

_I tried for so long to hide from it.  To hide from their memories.  Why did I do that?  Why would I ever want to forget anything about them?_

He remembered, suddenly, the way Kouran's eyes wrinkled when she laughed, the crooked grin Hikou got on his face every time he was about to do something phenomenally stupid.  He remembered long, hot, lazy summers spent swimming, fishing, squirting each other with sunscreen, racing bikes through sun-burnished fields, building tree houses, pretending to be on grand adventures that somehow always ended in magnificent sword battles, camping out on the rocky ground with stars peppering the sky above them, a thermos of hot chocolate to keep them warm, and enough stories and games to keep them awake and giggling until dawn.  He remembered going on secret late-night walks, sneaking past dark windows and sleeping dogs, leaping for the bushes like spies every time a car rumbled down the nearby road.  He remembered Hikou's passion for drawing despite a significant lack of talent; Kouran's need to protect all living things, whether person, animal, flower, or insect; Hikou's secret love of romantic tear-jerkers; Kouran's long, graceful strides that he had to work to keep up with; Hikou's startling insight into the thoughts and psyches of his friends; Kouran's love of chocolate; Hikou's unflappable (and often irritating) optimism; Kouran's vanilla-scented shampoo; Hikou's tattered red T-shirt, worn at least three times every week; Kouran's soft, sweet voice that lifted in laughter so light and musical that it made his heart ache…

God.  He had almost twenty years of memories of them.  _Twenty years.  Twenty years that he'd been ready to dismiss…why?  Because they had died?  Because he had lost them?_

_My God, I've been so stupid._

_Just because they're gone, that makes their lives worthless?  That makes our time together mean nothing?_

"Ryuuen," he said, and was astonished at the quiet strength in his voice, "did you love your sister?"

A startled silence, then:  "Yes.  Very much."

Houjun rose slowly to his feet, already tasting the spicy-sweet warmth of his mother's banana bread, hearing the gravelly rumble of his father's laughter from the living room.  If he left tomorrow morning, he could be home in two days, sitting at the edge of the lake with the dying sunlight on his shoulders and the water lapping at his toes.  It would be a new semester soon; he could register for the classes he'd never finished, graduate… Live.  Suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more in the world than that.

"Then don't forget her," he told Ryuuen softly.  "Her life isn't gone just because she died.  Death doesn't change anything but the future, and…and we never had that to begin with."

~*~

_6 months later_

The stones had been placed in neighboring plots at the lower east edge of the cemetery.  Sturdy, stretching oaks shaded them, leaking through only mottled patches of sunlight, and a small stream bubbled noisily from behind the trees.  The stones themselves had been well-cared for, their gritty surfaces routinely scrubbed, the flower beds beneath them watered and weeded, and over the past year a carpet of thick, lush grass had grown in over the bare earth.  

As Houjun halted before the graves, Ryuuen's hand a warm, comforting weight in his fingers, he couldn't help clutching the twin bundles of flowers closer to his chest.  It had been a year ago, today, that his life had changed forever, and while he had found remarkable peace, contentment, and happiness during that year, his chest still ached at the unfairness of his friends' loss.  He began to wonder, again, where he might be, what he might be doing were they still alive—but one glance back at Ryuuen shattered those thoughts in a heartbeat.

Ryuuen, his dearest friend, who he would never have met if not for this tragedy.  Ryuuen, who might still be suffocating under the shadow of his family's death if not for their meeting—who might never have let go of his sister's ghost and begun to live as himself again.  

"Thanks for coming with me," Houjun said softly, taking in the younger man's closely-cropped hair, white dress shirt, and blue jeans with a slight smile.  "I know you probably have studying to do."

Ryuuen grinned and shook his head.  "Nah, I'll be fine.  It's only my first semester here—I've got three and a half years to get my grades to a decent level.  …and anyway, it's the least I can do.  I seem to remember someone visiting a cemetery with me some time ago."  His eyes narrowed slightly in study of Houjun's head.  "Though he had a bit less hair."

Houjun smiled.  "Actually, I was thinking of shaving it off again.  I don't know if you've noticed, but my hair has a bad habit of…"

"Trying to defy gravity?"  
  


"Exactly.  So instead of drowning it in gel so it will lie flat…"

"Shave it off.  Mm, I see your point.  Well, maybe I'll try it with you."

Houjun arched an eyebrow.  "You'll try it with me," he echoed flatly.  "You'll shave your head."  
  


"Don't you _dare_," came a booming voice from behind them.

Turning, the two found Saihitei standing with arms crossed tautly over his chest, long chestnut hair tumbling over his broad shoulders.  His eyes were narrowed, his brows slanting downwards—but a fond smile played at his lips when he spoke again.  

"I refuse to date anyone with such blatant disregard for his hair."

Ryuuen raised a hand to his chest in mock astonishment.  "You mean…you'll _break up with me if I shave my head?"  
  
_

Saihitei smiled, though he managed to look stern as he nodded.  "I most certainly will."  He tilted his head, considering.  "Though another weekend in that wonderful spa in the mountains might change my mind."

"Oh, get a fucking room," growled the redhead who stood a few feet to Saihitei's right.  "And Houjun, for fuck's sake, if you're not gay, stop holdin' Ryuuen's hand."

Ryuuen only smiled and wrapped his other hand over his and Houjun's clasped fingers.  "Don't worry," he confided to the former monk.  "He's just jealous."

"The hell I am!"

"Genrou," said Saihitei firmly, "this is a cemetery.  They generally discourage the shouting of obscenities."

"I don't see any fucking _signs_."

As the argument escalated, Houjun drew his hand gently from Ryuuen's, took a small step forward, and knelt between the graves.  Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a moment to bring Kouran's image before his eyes, to hear her laughter, feel the sweet warmth of her lips.  Next, he turned his thoughts to Hikou, seeing the other man so clearly that for a moment, he thought he might be able to stretch out a hand and touch his shoulder…

"Will you two be _quiet?!_" Ryuuen bellowed, his words rising impressively above both Saihitei's and Genrou's voices.  "_Jesus_, this is a _cemetery!_"

The images of Hikou and Kouran lingered for a moment more, their lips forming warm, familiar smiles…and then their faces faded like old photographs, and there was only darkness.  

No.  No, not darkness.  New faces, rising like the first golden rays of dawn in the east. 

He left the flowers between the graves, the petals already wilting in the dazzling afternoon sunshine.  They would be pale and shriveled the next time he came here, their stems ready to sink into the earth and be renewed, but for now he just enjoyed their beauty:  soft purple petals in a bed of velvety green…

Then he climbed to his feet, turned, and faced his friends.  

He couldn't help smiling.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_The world is round_

_and the place which_

_may seem like the end_

_may also be the beginning._

--Ivy Baker Priest

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Owari._


End file.
